Legend has it that in 1767 when Thailand’s then-capital of Ayutaya was captured by the Burmese and thousands of Thai soldiers were incarcerated, the prisoners were made to fight against Burmese boxing champions for the entertainment of the king. One Thai soldier fought his way to the top and so impressed the Burmese king that he was granted his freedom.
Now the Prison Fight organization, working with Thailand’s Department of Corrections, is taking this fighting spirit and applying it in a modern context—allowing Thai inmates a chance to fight for their freedom. Literally. Through an ongoing series of planned events, the charity organization is giving Thai prisoners a go at redemption through this traditional martial art. There are cash prizes and a chance for reduced sentencing for even those convicted of violent crimes.
Of course, to be eligible for the program you need to meet several prior qualifications and be in good standing within the penitentiary. So really the reduced sentencing comes down to good old good behavior. But there are other benefits as well. The prisoners get a chance to train and stay healthy and alleviate the inevitable, crushing boredom of a life behind bars.

In Saraburi, Thailand, Wat Tham Krabok's drug rehabilitation program has gained traction for its intense and aggressive strategies, which include drinking vomit-inducing elixirs to purge the body of poisons and dependency.

For many of Thailand's ladyboys, to be a woman is to be the ultimate woman, to become a social fantasy. For some it is a road plagued by stereotypes and hardships in a world loathe to recognize a sliding scale for gender. For others, it's a journey and celebration of self-actualization.
In its way, Thailand's unique relationship with ladyboy culture creates a stage where the myths and stereotypes of gender are enacted with a vibrancy rarely seen elsewhere, where boys and girls can be reborn or transform in whatever ways they see fit. Where fantasy becomes reality, and the mask of the ultimate woman can be put on as easily as a pair of new heels.

My clothes are still drying. My shoes are in tatters. My underwater camera bag looks like it was attacked by a drunken, chalk-wielding mermaid. My mind is still trying to wrap itself around what exactly went on. I was in Bangkok for Songkran: the Thai New Year. I was made to get wet. Which is what happens the nation over for three days between April 13-15 each year. You get wet. Very wet.
Traditionally, the festivities are rooted in the zodiac calendar, when the sun enters the sign of Aries. Songkran is a time of cleansing and renewal. Hence the water. But what was once a means of washing Buddha statues and the hands of elders has now turned into a nationwide water fight. In Bangkok, there is an incessant deluge from shopfronts, vehicles and people on the street. My goal was to get into the fray, to embrace the festival's more hedonistic aspects. Who needs tradition anyway? From an outsider's perspective, there's very little left of that to be seen. Now it's just a good time. Unless you hate fun.

For many children in the poorer countrysides of Thailand, the dream of becoming a famous Muay Thai star is a prominent one. The sport is seen as disciplined and honorable and steeped in Thai history, but as boys younger and younger begin to fight, questions are being raised about safety and long-term health issues.

For years, Thailand stayed away from Mixed Martial Arts fighting, preferring instead to remain loyal and true to the nation's Muay Thai roots. But now it's realizing the two can coexist, and a new breed of fighter is starting to gain traction with the public.

From Tuol Sleng prison and the killing fields of Choeung Ek to the ancient ruins of Beng Mealea and Angkor Wat and all the roads in between, Cambodia is a place of contrast and beauty and tragedy.
The nation's past echoes loudly from the empty classrooms of S-21, where thousands of Cambodians were tortured and killed from 1975-1979, as well as from the great carved corridors of Angkor Thom and the 900-year-old Bayon, with its army of passive stone faces forever looking over the distant horizon.
Cambodia's past and present is rich and complex, and these photographs represent only a very small fragment of the whole.

Never before or since my short trip to North Korea have I felt so perplexed about the realities of a country. It’s easy to know certain things: it’s a hermit nation, it’s citizens have little to no access to the outside world, it’s been run by a family of despots since the end of the Korean War, and it seemingly revels in its own bad behavior, taunting the world but stopping just short of biting the hands that feed it. But like all things worth exploring, what’s on the surface can be a very shallow reflection of the place as a whole.
During my few days in country, I met some of the nicest, most intelligent people I’ve ever had the pleasure of speaking with. North Koreans, born and raised. They would talk to me about the US’s foreign policies, about Vietnam’s peculiar brand of communism, and about many other things, but they would never talk about their own country. Except to say how great their Dear

Within Shan state in Myanmar, the Sisters of Charity run numerous orphanages and care centers for the elderly and handicapped, as well as a leper colony on the outskirts of Kengtung. With little to no official government assistance, the organisation relies on donors and various funding to survive. The sisters themselves have all taken vows of chastity, obedience, and poverty, and have dedicated their lives to serving others.

The Red River rises in China's Yunnan province and flows across northern Vietnam, through Hanoi and emptying lazily into the Gulf of Tonkin. From Lao Cai to Nam Dinh provinces, it winds through mountains and valleys, giving livelihood to the millions of residents who live along its banks. This is an intimate look at northern Vietnam at one of its major arteries, about the people who live along the water's edges.